


Johnlock Ficlet Collection

by Irrevocably_Sherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Co-Bathing, Ficlet Collection, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Johnlock ficlets, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Parentlock, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Rimming, Scottish Accents, Shower Sex, emotional attachment to furniture, mentions of sad wanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-20 16:52:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 11,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4795034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked/pseuds/Irrevocably_Sherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a collection of Johnlock ficlets, originally posted on my Tumblr page.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John's Chair

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to all those who encouraged me to write these! Come visit me on my Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/snogbox1

John’s chair was never just a chair. Never just a place to sit and rest. Never something so _ordinary_. It was John’s. It was his essence, his permanence in the flat, in the home he shared with Sherlock. It was his place of being, of belonging. Even after two years away, Sherlock could still smell John on the fabric. The faintest trace of his shampoo leaching into the upholstery, a whiff of gun oil on the Union Jack pillow. On days when the loneliness became too much to bear, when the voices wouldn’t quiet, Sherlock would curl his long legs into that chair and inhale, and suddenly he could think again.

Other people couldn’t see beyond the basic function. They saw a chair. A place to sit. With no sentiment to cloud their minds they thought nothing of placing themselves in his spot. Sherlock hated them for it. Even Hudders. Sitting there, the morning of the worst day of his life, prattling on with nonsense.

So when he walked back into that empty flat, after watching John dance away with Mary, his eyes alighted on that chair. He knew, in that moment, that John’s essence was gone. His space in 221b was no longer needed because he was with her. Sherlock curled himself into John’s chair, inhaling the last remnants of John that he could and let the icy wave of sadness wash over him. And as the tears fell over the lapels of his morning jacket, he vowed to not let John’s memory become ordinary. Not let other people take it away. No one would use or take what was rightfully John’s.

The chair had to move.


	2. Letting Go

I find myself here again. I don’t want to be, but it seems I can’t keep myself away. I feel you here. Christ, I feel you everywhere, really, but it’s the strongest here. I can hear you, muttering over some experiment. Chattering away excitedly over some random fact you want to share, your beautiful eyes sparkling with excitement. You looked so gorgeous in those moments, you know. You would look at me and it took every ounce of effort not to go to you, pull you close, run my fingers through your silky hair. To touch my lips to yours to see if they were as soft as they looked. To finally admit the things I’d been hiding for so long. But like the sodding idiot I am I would look away, break that mesmerizing hold and the moment would pass.

 

“Tea?” you’d ask.

 

“Of course,” I’d reply, getting up to start the kettle.

 

Even now I wonder, did you feel it too? Did you wonder what we could be like? What would happen if one of us would take that step, bridge that gap? I imagined it happening in so many ways. Hot and hard, the blood pumping through us, surging with adrenaline fresh from a case. I’ve seen you in my mind up against the wall, shivering beneath my touch, and Christ the sounds I can imagine you making. There were nights, so many nights, Sherlock that I had to leave the flat for ‘air’ because my thoughts of you left me aching with need. And it felt so wrong somehow. I wanted you, but I knew you ‘ _didn’t feel things that way’_ , were ‘ _married to your work’_ , and I knew it could never be. At least that’s what I told myself.

 

The truth is, I was a fucking coward, Sherlock. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Because I was too afraid to try. To try for something better than we had. To see if those nights by the fire with takeaway, your legs brushing mine, your slow smiles could become something more.

 

God I miss you. I ache for you. I still can hear you, smell you, see you here. It was you, always you. But I was too much of a fucking idiot to tell you. And now you’re gone forever.  And it’s time. It’s time to tell you.

 

I love you, Sherlock. I always will. No one can ever mean to me what you did. No one. Please wherever you are, know that.

 

But, I’m lonely. And she’s…well, she’s nice. And maybe it can be okay. It will never be you. No one will ever shine with your brilliance. But I have to move on now. So this is me, saying goodbye. Goodbye to Baker Street. Goodbye to the Consulting Detective and his Blogger. Goodbye to you.

 

Goodbye Sherlock.


	3. Patience

Sherlock is not what you would call patient. Impulsive and rash are more likely the adjectives one would use to define his actions. He is a man given to movement. Great sweeping gestures with his arms as he talks, twirling objects in his hands as he ponders the latest puzzle. At crime scenes, Sherlock moves in circles, his beloved Belstaff billowing out behind him like a cape. Even when seemingly still, his mind whirrs and churns a mile a minute, focusing on everything and nothing all at once, an endless cavalcade of data cascading through his skull. Simply put, Sherlock Holmes is 183 cm of energy trapped in Seville Row finery.

But then Sherlock met John. A beautiful dichotomy of a man John Watson is. He is one who can flow with the energy Sherlock creates, but also knows the value in slowing things down, cherishing the moment. A man quick to anger, but just as quick to laughter. From the moment they met, John is the one person who both challenged Sherlock and quieted him, someone worth slowing down for.  That is not to say that Sherlock is not still restless, not still a whirling ball of fire his body struggles to maintain, but rather that he takes the time now to appreciate things he missed before. And John is teaching him other things as well. The meaning of many words he’d long since forgotten he had a use for.

_Slow_ – The slide of John’s fingers up Sherlock’s torso, lightly skimming first one taut nipple then the other.

_Indulgent_ – John’s mouth, hot and wet on Sherlock’s throat, his teeth biting gently into the skin.

_Savour_ – John’s tongue on his cock, his perfect lips enveloping his length as he bobs between Sherlock’s legs.

_Cherish_ –John’s hard length filling him, hitting his prostate on every stroke, his fingers laced with Sherlock’s, holding, comforting. “That’s it love,” he sighs, “come for me.”

And finally after both men have chased their release and found it in each other, Sherlock’s mind goes blissfully, peacefully blank. And in that moment, Sherlock understands the meaning of _quiet_.

As he draws the duvet up around John’s sleeping body, he thinks that perhaps there is a benefit to slowing down. For this beautiful man, Sherlock would calm the energy inside him a bit, allow himself to linger, to wait, to be in the moment. For John Watson, Sherlock would be patient.


	4. At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock Wedding.

The night is winding down. Most of the guests have already stumbled off somewhere, back home, or, a few, to dark alcoves with some willing partner they’ve pulled for the evening.  Speeches have been given, cake has been cut, and the newlyweds are nestled together at the head table.

“Time for one last song everyone,” the DJ intones, “let’s make it a good one, yeah?”

As the soulful strains of Ella Fitzgerald coast over the room, Sherlock looks over at John. His John now. His husband. He can hardly believe that after all this time, they are actually here. To say John looked good at his last wedding is an understatement, but tonight, he is positively resplendent, his silver-blond hair glowing in the dim candlelight, his blue eyes sparkling. Those blue eyes catch Sherlock’s now, one eyebrow lifting.

“Dance, husband?” He asks.

“My pleasure,” Sherlock responds, getting up from the table.

Sherlock has always loved dancing. Teaching John to waltz for his last wedding was an exquisite torture, bodies so close, but not able to actually close the gap. No such gap exists now, as he tenderly takes John into his arms, his new husband’s hands resting gently at his shoulder and the small of his back. 

_Perfection_ , he thinks, as John tilts his head up, brushing his lips across Sherlock’s.

As the two men sway together alone on the dance floor, they both can’t help thinking about the road they’ve taken to get where they are. Full of twists and turns, and bumps, but they have finally found the way forward, together.

At last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a gift for theglitterypotato on her 10th anniversary. Go check out her art on tumblr, its gorgeous!


	5. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes home to Sherlock...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [By this Tumblr post](http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/post/129523949769/welcome-home-johns-first-morning-back-at-221b)
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/) I am Snogbox1

It was late as John climbed the seventeen steps to the sitting room the night he returned to Baker Street. He paused in the doorway, looking at Sherlock across the room, as if asking permission. Was he still welcome? _Of course_ , the unspoken reply came, _anytime_. Sherlock must have sensed the tension in his shoulders, the frustration lining his features, because he picked up his violin and turned to play. Brahms. One of John’s favorites when he had trouble sleeping.

John made the trek up to his room, pausing just inside the doorway to let the memories come flooding in. That first night, laughing in the entryway, all the cases they had shared. Sherlock bursting in a 3 am, “The Game is on!” Happier times. John set his bags down and quickly stripped, climbing into bed. _Mrs. Hudson must’ve fixed it up_ was his last conscious thought before falling into his first deep and restful night of sleep in months, the soft sounds of the violin soothing his dreams.

The next morning John woke feeling refreshed and content, and made his way downstairs. The flat was quiet, Sherlock’s door still closed. John took a minute just to soak up the fact that he was back here in 221B, the place he always considered home. Smoothing his fingers along the back of his chair, he realized that the flat he shared with Mary was just that. A flat. Never a home. Never he place he felt whole.

John moved into the kitchen and flipped the kettle on, pondering if he should go back to the old routine of making Sherlock’s tea. With a smile, he realized that most likely it would be the first words out of the git’s mouth when he awoke, and reached for a second cup. That thought lead to memories of tea and toast, and shared brunches, and soon John was so lost in his thoughts, he didn’t hear Sherlock emerge from his room. So lost was he, that he didn’t notice when Sherlock stepped behind him, wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him close. Sherlock leaned down and nuzzled his nose against the top of John’s head and whispered a soft “welcome home,” against his scalp.

John froze, his eyes wide as saucers. He thought briefly of removing himself, taking Sherlock’s hand from where it was resting on his chest and stepping from his grasp. But as the moment lingered, John let himself relax into the embrace. Here in Sherlock’s arms, he truly felt like he had come home.


	6. Front Lines and Lifelines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes John needs something to hold on to...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [on Tumblr](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/) I am Snogbox1

“Watson!”

The shout rings out, loud and harsh, as the rat-a-tat of artillery fire explodes around him. John turns toward the anguished yell, hoping that this time, God please this time, don't let him find -

But it’s always the same, brown sand turning black as the man’s blood runs out of his armor, mixing his essence into the Afghan dessert. John never knows who it is, it changes every time. He only knows he needs to run, run until his lungs are burning, staying low to keep himself out of the line of fire until he can reach his fellow soldier’s side and turn him over to begin his work. This is his job, but proximity and repetition don’t make it any easier to handle. He reaches the man’s side and rolls him to find pale silver green-eyes staring up at him, mahogany curls thick and matted with blood. That isn’t right, he’s not here. Not here. Not here.

“Sherlock!”

“It's just a magic trick...Goodbye, John.”

Then Sherlock is falling, falling from the sky like some dark angel, his coat billowing out like a storm cloud, too fast. John is trying to reach him, trying to stop him, trying to make him see. You're not a machine, Sherlock. Please don’t, please. Please don’t leave me….

The sound of a body hitting the ground is a horrible thing. It’s not quite a thud like you hear in the movies. It’s the sudden and complete stop of a living thing being hurled at great force. It’s going to make more than a thud. Whatever sound it makes, John will never forget the time Sherlock’s body made it.

John is reaching out to touch, trying desperately to grasp that pale wrist, begging every deity he can think of to please, please let there be a pulse. But the pavement is glistening darkly, and the incandescent light in those eyes is gone, taken from the world…

John startles awake. It takes him a minute to realize where he is, and when he does he lets out a deep shuddering breath. And then another. Baker Street. The moonlight is filtering in through the open window of his upstairs bedroom, casting light on its familiar contours. John is sitting upright in the middle of his bed, fists clenched in the bed sheets, breathing hard. He tries to slow the pace of his breathing, do the exercises Ella once taught him, but it’s not working. Another shaky inhale and he buries his face in his hands.

A sound on the stairs makes him pause. He normally would rail against the invasion of privacy, but tonight, he has a sudden desire, a sudden need, to not be alone.

“Sherlock,” he calls softly, “I know you're there. Come in.”

Sherlock opens the door slowly, pausing before stepping all the way in.

“John, I’m sorry to have woken you.”

John motions for Sherlock to come further into the room. Sherlock complies, closing the door and perching on the edge of John’s bed, turning to face him. He is wearing his pajama bottoms and his ratty t-shirt, blue dressing gown completing the ensemble, hair gloriously mussed. John realizes he must have been asleep as well. He takes a quick peek at his clock, 3:57. _Christ_ he thinks, _I have to be up in three hours_. John knows, however, there is very little chance he will be able to sleep tonight, at least not alone. The dreams have left him shaken, and he craves another’s presence.

Sherlock appears to read his mind. Without warning or discussion, he lifts the covers and crawls beneath them, stretching out on his side, facing John.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” John breathes, more confused than ever at the sight of Sherlock in his bed.

Sherlock gives him the look. “John. You have been visited by your dreams tonight, and you are apprehensive about going back to sleep. Additionally, you are concerned because you have to wake up in less than three hours to make it to the surgery. You know you sleep better in someone’s presence. Since Mary is gone and you are not dating, that leaves me. Obviously. Now do get comfortable, John. Or do you prefer to sleep sitting up?” He is going for impervious, but there is a slight wobble in his voice at the end of his speech, like he is expecting John to forcefully kick him out of his room.

John ponders this speech for a minute. He briefly considers telling Sherlock to do exactly that, to get the hell out of his bed and back to his own, that he is perfectly capable of sleeping alone, thankyouverymuch, but then he realizes that no. No he’s not. And ever since Sherlock walked into the room, his breathing has gone back to normal. Plus, Sherlock in his bed just looks...right. Sherlock nestles into the pillow, his eyes focused on John’s, and John feels a warm tingle begin in his chest and spread throughout his body.

“Fine, Sherlock, just for tonight.”

“Of course”

John settles down onto his side facing Sherlock and closes his eyes, trying to relax enough to fall back asleep. As soon as he does however, he sees those sharp cheekbones, bloodied and broken, blood seeping from that pale temple as he lies on the concrete. John lets out a low whine, and instinctively reaches out his hand to touch that wrist, one last time…

But this time, the flesh is warm and pliant under his fingertips, the pulse jumping as he trails his digits over it. His eyes fly open to find Sherlock’s, soft and intent, watching him. Sherlock turns his wrist and grips John’s hand where it rests between them on the double bed, a shy smile lighting his features.

“I’m here, John,” he whispers.

John grasps Sherlock’s hand, intertwining their fingers, and responds with his own weary smile. The touch has provided John with a touchstone, a talisman to hold fast to. A tactile reminder of the here and now. John likens it to a lifeline, a rope tossed to a drowning man, something to pull him out of the depths and into calmer water.

“Sleep now, John,” Sherlock intones softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

John sighs and closes his eyes, and for the first time that night, the offending images are completely silent. He holds onto his lifeline, and finally he sleeps.


	7. Unspoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Sherlock really said on the Tarmac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So HLV always gets me right in the heart. Sherlock's tears on the plane kill me every time. That's where this came from. Forgive me. 
> 
> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Big thank you to Ariane DeVere's [transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/68754.html)

My mind is on fire. I should be focusing on what lies ahead. On what I need to do to survive. Return. As if that were likely. Even with my full attention, balance of probability says I will not be finding my way home this time. That this is the last adventure I will undertake. You’d hate that idea if you knew. Do you know? Do you understand what I’d meant, what I was trying so desperately to convey? Do you realize that there are no more miracles present in this transport, that my chances have all been used up?

I don’t regret it. I don’t. I’d give my life a thousand times over if it meant you could live yours. Because of the two of us, it’s always been you. You have made this worthwhile. Made me realize that there is more to life than puzzles and mysteries, murder and death. That there is life and warmth. Smiles and tea. Crap telly and warm jumpers and looks that linger too long. That eyes can shine and people can conduct a light so luminent it rivals the sun. You have made me realize I have a heart, John. And with that, knowledge that a heartbreak, metaphorical as it may be, can still physically ache.

Do you know? Did you hear? I sit here on the plane that carries me away from my beloved London, away from you, and I wonder if you heard it. Did you hear what I was trying to tell you behind those well chosen words we exchanged? Seemingly meaningless they were, but I didn’t know how else to express it. Not with her. HER. There. Like a shadow. A spectre.

I can still see her. Her coat is the color of the fire that dances in my veins when I look at you. It is like a taunting reminder of unquenched desire. At least for me. I don’t like her, John. Would that surprise you, I wonder? I suppose it’s not a stretch. It’s hard to retain warm regards for one that has seeked your end through an assasin’s means. But before that. I didn’t. I don’t. I never have. I can see it; If you were here you would ask why? Why’d I plan the bloody wedding with her, for her, if I didn’t like her. Why’d I shoot Magnussen for her? And I, would as ever, be impressed with your ability to see, but not observe. For her? John. Never. For you? Always. Always you. By now you must know. You must. Do you?

I think again over what we said, and I can hear it. Can you?

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes. That’s the whole of it, If you’re looking for baby names.” _I am here and I need you to see me, to hear me. Please remember me, John. Please._

“The East Wind takes us all in the end...it seeks out the unworthy and plucks them the Earth,” I’d said. You’d smiled at me then, but did you hear it? _I wasn’t enough for you. I wasn’t what you needed, what you wanted, and I am letting you go._

“Where are you actually going now?” You asked.

I gave you the vague answer about undercover work in Eastern Europe.

“For how long?”

“Six months, my brother estimates. He is never wrong.” I couldn’t meet your eyes on that. Did you see? I couldn’t keep the waver out of my voice, try as I might. I didn’t want to alarm you, never, but did you hear? Did you? _I am not coming back._

I close my eyes, remembering the next part. How I have longed to say those words to you. Every cell, every pore, has been screaming for me to tell you what you mean to me. I’ve been afraid. I’m still afraid, John. But maybe, maybe you sensed it? Did you? My conductor of light? You, who still knows me better than anyone, did you hear it?

“John, there’s something ... I should say; I-I’ve meant to say always and then never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now...Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.” _I love you, I love you, I love you._

I do, John. Illogically, irrevocably, inexplicably, I love you. Always you. Since the moment we met. You must know. You must have heard it, seen it. Did you? In my words, my eyes, my body? Read it the way I can read a crime scene? I dare to hope you did. I could not bear to say the words out loud to you in front of her, my brother, an audience. But I dare to believe you heard. Did you?

I need to believe you did. Hold that with you and be happy, John. I did this for you. Be happy. Love Mary. Love your daughter. Be safe. I will carry that with me now, on this, my last case. You, alive, and in the world you want. Just as I now carry the feel of your hand in mine, your skin against my fingers. I can still see you, my beautiful soldier, I will never forget you. Think of me sometimes. And know, know, that I loved you. Goodbye, John. 


	8. Countdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More HLV Feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of sorts of chapter 7, Unspoken. But it stands alone too. 
> 
> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Big thank you to Ariane DeVere's [transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/68754.html)

One minute. I’ve been in the air one minute. I can still see the city falling away as I climb higher, moving farther away from you. Are you still standing on the tarmac, I wonder? Or have you gotten back into the car? The both of you. Gotten back in, had the driver take you back to your cozy little flat in the suburbs. Back where you can live your lives together. Man and wife. Father and Mother. John and Mary. I wonder, if I hadn’t been sent away, would you have made room for me? Carved me a niche, a hole, in your cozy little existence? Allowed me some small fragment of you? Best man, best friend? Maybe more? _Stupid_. Stupid Sherlock. Stupid to ask. It doesn’t matter.

Two minutes. It feels like longer. Every second feels like a year. Every minute a lifetime. I’d never realized what it meant to miss someone. Truly, I’d never had anyone to miss before. Before you. Before you limped into that lab at Barts. Did you know how quickly you enraptured me, John? Did you? Most people I can look at and know their history, their wants, needs, desires in the space of a heartbeat. You were different. I could see you, yes, but I actually _wanted_ to know you. _Wanted_ to know what you liked. What you thought. Yes, what you desired. I find myself, even now, wondering what it is your heart desires.

I know what I desire, John. My body, my mind, yes, my heart, all align on one thing, one singular person. You. It’s been you for so long. How did you not see? How did I not tell you? Why was I so afraid? I love you. I want you. Would that surprise you? I think it might. You, for so long, have harbored certain beliefs about me in that arena. Beliefs I was content to let lie, lest you learn the truth. I yearn for you, John. I ache for you. I’ve imagined you and I so many times. My lips on yours, your hands on my heated flesh, pressing and caressing, taking me apart. Limbs, slick with sweat, intertwined as our bodies come together, coaxing each other to release.

Did I shock you? Would it shock you further to know that there were many nights, John, where my thoughts of you forced me to take myself in hand, imagining it was your fingers stroking across my length, your mouth on my skin, wringing the pleasure from my body? I would try to be so quiet, when really I wanted to moan, to beg, to cry, to scream. Your name a benediction, a prayer falling from my lips. But I couldn’t let you hear. I was afraid. What would you have done I wonder, if you had heard. Would you have joined me? Let me show you how much I worship you, body and soul? Or would you have run?

Sometimes I think you would have stayed. There were times when your eyes blazed hot at me, _for_ me. Times when your gaze lingered on my form and seared into my veins like fire. Times when I was so tempted to reach out and see if the promise held in that gaze was real. Stag night was a close thing, John. I can still see it. Still feel it, your hand on my leg, your fingers pressing into my thigh. You wanted me then. I could sense it in your movement, in your eyes. How much further would you have gone? I wanted to find out. Lean forward and capture your wrist, move your hand higher until you could see how much I desired you. Instead I stayed still, let you retreat. But, oh John, how I wanted to take what was on offer. Did you know? Or did you think me indifferent? But I let you go. Back to her, back to the life you created in my absence. Back to where you belong. Back to your life without me.

Three minutes. I wish you were here with me. My John. I’m lost without you. Did you know? The first time I left, I did it to protect you, to keep you safe. But I always kept in mind that I was working to come home to you. To our life, to Baker Street, to Sherlock and John, the Detective and his Blogger. I suppose, in a way, I still am protecting you. I always will, John, until my last breath. I still don’t regret it. You are the best and the bravest man I have ever known.

“To the very best of times, John.” I’d uttered those words to you on the tarmac, holding your hand in mine one last time. But did you hear? _My best of times have always been with you._

From that very first night, every happy moment is wrapped in you. I’ve loved you, John, so long, and so much. My sole regret is that I never told you in words what you meant to me, and now I will never have the chance again.

“Sir? It’s your brother.”

Four minutes into my death sentence and the executioner calls. What more can he possibly want from me? What more can I possibly give? Briefly, my mind flashes to you, and I worry that I have missed something. Have I misread it again? Mary? Has she betrayed you? _Stupid Sherlock_.

“Mycroft?” _Please let John be safe._

“Hello little brother, how is the exile going?”

“I’ve only been gone four minutes.” Hopefully he cannot hear the tears in my voice. I do so hate being human around my brother.

“Well, I certainly hope you’ve learned your lesson. As it turns out, you’re needed”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Make up your mind. Who needs me this time?”

“England,” Mycroft says, and hangs up.

Five minutes. Hope is soaring in my chest. Dare I to hope? Five minutes and my execution has been stayed. Yes, the plane is turning around and we are returning to the airfield. Back to London. Back to you. To you, dear John. _John_. The thought of you brings a peal of joy into my heart. Are you still on the tarmac? Did you hear the news? Do you know I am coming back, coming home?

Three minutes. Instead of counting up, I am now counting down. Counting down until I can be in your presence again, hear your voice. Make you laugh again. Your laugh, John, it’s intoxicating. It’s why I made the joke earlier. Leave ‘em laughing. I wanted to hear it again, one of the very last things that would ring in my head throughout the cold nights to come. When you laugh, my blood sings. Warmth booms in my chest and spreads throughout my body until I can feel it in every cell. It is one of the things I love about you, you have shown me true joy.

Two minutes. I can see you now. Your form is coming into view, still standing on the tarmac. I focus my eyes for a moment on your increasing shape. What will you do, I wonder, when the plane lands? Will you be happy to see me? Will you smile? Will you congratulate me on my escape, yet again, from the clutches of death? I know what I wish. In my mind I can see it clear. The door opening, I step from the plane, saunter up to you, and draw you close. Crush our mouths together, show you all that I have been holding back these long years. Envelop you in my arms and promise to never let you go. In my fantasy, you hold me just as tightly, whisper your love for me into my ear, stroke my curls. Promise me that from now on it’s together or not at all. Smiles on our faces as we head for home, together.

A flash of red draws my eye, and like that, my fantasy goes up in smoke. It was never to be, was it? Because you have her, and your place is by her side. To pet her hair, and stroke her face and tell her you’ll never let her go. Not me. Never me. _Stupid_. Stupid Sherlock.

One minute. We are landing. In just a few moments we will see where I belong in your life. Is there room for me still? I dare to hope. Do you want me, John? Somehow? Some way? Whatever role it is I’ll take it. Please say there is a space for me, however small. A chance to at least be your friend. I’ll always be there, John. I promised. Will you make room? The door is opening, and I am home.

  



	9. Hidden Treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John knows he's got something special...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/)

John sees the looks. He hears the quiet whispers, spoken behind hands. He accepts the questions asked outright. The well-meaning statements. The well-wishes that are hidden in passive aggressive critique over his chosen partner. Yarders, friends, strangers, all giving him support, advice, because of his choice. His choice to make Sherlock Holmes his partner in all things.

And its fine. It’s all fine. Because they don’t understand. All those people don’t see what he does, what he has always seen. Everyone has always refused to look beyond the carefully crafted facade that Sherlock presents to the world. The untouchable sociopath, the annoying arsehole. And it’s true. Sherlock is a dick. Unabashedly and unashamedly. But only to those who truly deserve it. Idiots, bastards, and meddling prats. Outside of 221B, the Work is what captivates Sherlock, and all else need not apply. That is the side most of the world sees. All business Sherlock.

But what those people don’t see is the other side. The soft smile that greets John each morning. The way his eyes crinkle around the corners, the pale irises sparkling with delight when he sees John has awoken in their shared bed. They don’t feel the soft brushes of his hands over John’s face, or the velvet slide of his fingertips over his skin. They don’t feel the tender kisses and the murmured “good mornings” that fall out of that exquisite mouth. They don’t know the feeling of that body, writhing in pleasure underneath him, flushed and beautiful, lost in the throes of ecstasy.

There’s so much John could tell them about who Sherlock really is. What he is truly like. But it’s like a treasure. It’s enough that he knows. That he knows Sherlock wept the first time they made love, burying his face in John’s neck and whispering “I love you” through his tears. That Sherlock hates playing Brahms but will do it for John, only for John, to soothe his nightmares when they strike. That Sherlock loves to have his head stroked, and will lay for hours in John’s lap, quietly enjoying his ministrations like a cat.

All these things John could tell them, and more. But he doesn’t owe anyone any explanations. So as he watches out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock prances around the crime scene, Belstaff flowing like a cape, deductions flying from his lips, he can see the whisperers warming up. Sherlock makes his final deduction, hurling a scathing retort to the newest forensic officer, and yes, there it is.

“It must be awful for John, having to live with that.”

“I just don’t get it, what does he see in him?”

John pushes down his desire to rage at them, to rail, to hurl every truth he knows about Sherlock until they see what a wonder they have in front of them. In the end, he lets his actions speak.

“Brilliant,” John says, walking up to where Sherlock is standing with Lestrade with the victim. “Are we done here?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock replies, face gone slightly pink. Perhaps from the cold, but more likely from the praise, even after all these years.

John reaches out and grabs Sherlock’s left hand, kissing the platinum band nestled snugly there. “Home,” he says, entwining their fingers.

He can see those whisperers sputtering and flashes them a wicked grin before turning to press his mouth to Sherlock’s. It’s just a tender slide of lips, but when he pulls back, Sherlock is looking at him in such adoration, John cannot resist just one more kiss, crime scene be damned.

“Alright, enough you two,” Lestrade coughs.

John pulls back with a chuckle, flashing a cheeky grin at Greg. The whisperers are blissfully silent for once. Yes, he supposes, he could tell them all the wonderful things about his partner, his lover, his husband, but really, there are some things he’d rather keep for himself.

  
  



	10. Journal of JHW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A page from John's Journal...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Victorianlock for y'all, thanks to those trailers for the upcoming special. 
> 
> Come visit me on [ Tumblr as Snogbox1.](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/)

From the Journal of JHW

 

The outside world rushes by, a stunning array of colors catching my eye as the day passes to twilight. The gentle sway of the train carriage helping to soothe away the stress of the day, the long case Holmes had insisted upon us investigating. Our day started well before dawn, my sleep broken by a gentle caress across my brow, a simple glide of fingertips from my beloved’s hands, a whispered, “Watson.” Opening my eyes, I immediately noticed Holmes was dressed for the day, and a twinge of disappointment flared in my gut that this was not to be one of those visits. Of late, our night-time activities had become more frequent, and I often woke to Holmes creeping into my rooms to celebrate our affections for one another.

Truth be told, I went in search of him just as often, seeking to quell the desire that lay between us during our waking hours, desire that for propriety and our own safety must be carefully hidden away and confined to darkened rooms in our flat. How I longed to have him beside me always, be permitted to caress those defined cheekbones, pull that lithe body close, press my kisses across those lips whenever the desire struck me. But, society dictates it not to be so, and we must confine ourselves to the roles of Detective and Doctor, friends and consultants, never more while the sun is alight.

“Come, Watson!”

His voice roused me from my maudlin thoughts, and sighing, I had flung myself out of my bed and dressed quickly, ready to follow the madman on our next adventure. From that moment, there was no chance to rest as Holmes traipsed us up and down the English countryside. In the end, as always, Holmes proved triumphant. There was a moment, a fleeting breadth of a second where I had longed to pull him to me, for watching him in the midst of his investigations never fails to bring about a rise in affections for this beautiful man. But instead, I only had language to explain the heated emotions coursing through me.

“Amazing. Brilliant, my boy.”

How he had preened at such language. A delicate blush blooming in that beautiful face, as he knew the true meaning of my words. And how I would later tonight kiss each syllable into his flesh, inch by agonizing inch.  

Presently, we are sat in the train carriage on our way back to London, and the fatigue has caught up with my dear companion. I glance across the small compartment to the unusual picture of Holmes in repose. It is not often that he lets himself relax, actually stops moving long enough for sleep to catch him and pull him under, but when it does, it's a sight that never fails to make my heart expand. His gorgeous face, which I have admired in both day, with my eyes, and night, with lips and fingers, is serene, composed into a slumbering mask of beauty. He looks so far younger than his current years, the worry and strain of our profession wiped from those features. His hands, violinist’s hands, rest peacefully in his lap. How I adore his hands. Large and soft, tender and strong, during our nights those hands have massaged and caressed my skin, pulled forth cries and incantations from my lips as they have wrung the pleasure from my body. Just thinking now of all that lay ahead once we reach our destination has me flushed and eager, thoughts of chiseled planes and smooth alabaster skin pervading my brain. We are quite alone in the private carriage car Holmes has procured for us, and it is tempting to risk fate, close the distance between us, trail my fingers and lips up those long legs and take our release right here on the plush cushions. But to do so is madness, a step too far. So I remain on my side, looking for all the world as nothing more than two men sharing a train ride, when the truth is I would share everything with this man.

Holmes makes a small sound in his sleep that scares me from my thoughts, and as I watch, he begins to slump over in his seat. He is threatening to tumble forwards, which would provide a humorous vision, to be sure, but he needs this chance to rest. Swiftly I am on my feet and move to his side of the car, pressing my body close into his, using my weight to hold him in his place. Even in his state he senses my presence, that brilliant mind never quenched. He shifts ever so slightly towards me, laying his head to rest on my shoulder.

“Mmm, John.” He whispers, so softly it is little more than a puff of air.

The sound of my Christian name escaping his lips is a heady thing, it never fails to send a tingle of warmth coursing through my veins.

“Sleep, Sherlock. I’ll wake you when we arrive.” I press a small kiss, just a brush of my lips across his brow, and he nestles closer, wrapping his hand around mine.

For a moment, I freeze. Is it too much? We have the private car, but anyone may happen by. What would they see? But as night fully descends outside the moving window, I decide that for this wonderful man, I will take this small risk. Perhaps some day, some time, we can share more with no need to consider privacy. Perhaps someday I can wrap my arms fully around my beloved, hug him to me, stroke his hair while he sleeps, even when we are not alone. But if this is all we can share, here and now, I will take it, and enjoy what I can. For this man. For Sherlock.

  
  


John H. Watson, M.D

11/11/95


	11. Grateful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parentlock!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [ Tumblr as Snogbox1.](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/)

He’s not sure what he expected. Come to that, he’s not sure what he had the right to expect, showing up at Baker Street, that Saturday afternoon, everything he owned spread out before him on the pavement. Asking if he could please have his place back, his room. Only this time, John wasn’t alone. Looking over the form of his sleeping daughter, cradled in her carrier, to that of his best friend, he’d asked if he could come home. “Just for a bit,” he’d amended, taking in the slightly panicked look in Sherlock’s eyes. Recovering quickly, Sherlock had simply nodded and retreated into the flat. 

John knew Sherlock and babies were not a good combination. But since Mary, or whatever the hell her real name was, had taken off and left him and Amelia, he’d had nowhere else to go. Sure, he could have stayed in the flat in the suburbs, lived the life of the single father, but the thought of that made panic flare in his chest and his leg begin to throb. If he was being honest, he’d never actually pictured himself as a father at all, and the prospect of facing it alone was terrifying. And maybe the life he and Sherlock had, cases, experiments, and danger, wasn’t conducive to children, but John needed it like oxygen. So finding himself alone, he returned to the one place in the world he truly wanted to be. And, if he was forced to face an even more startling reality, the one person he truly wanted to be with.  

Knowing what he did of Sherlock, seeing how he was with his daughter was eye-opening, to say the least. Sherlock didn’t actively seek her out, didn’t pick her up, change her nappy or anything of the sort, but he was softer. He moderated his voice when she was napping to keep from waking her. He started keeping all the nasty toxic experiments downstairs in 221C, which he rented specifically for that purpose. He was careful about allowing clients into the flat while she was present, preferring her to be at Mrs. Hudson’s. Little things that John noticed, each one threatening to overpower the slim hold he had on his feelings regarding his flatmate and friend. Each time Sherlock did something, well, nice, John was tempted to pull him into his arms, kiss those ridiculous lips, and tell him how bloody grateful he was to have him in his life. It was only a matter of time, really, until something bubbled over. And then where would he be?

It was 3 am about one month and four days after John had moved back in that things came to  a head. Startled awake from where he had fallen asleep watching telly, John was surprised not to hear Amelia’s cries, but a familiar baritone softly rasping from his bedroom upstairs. Curious as to why Sherlock would be talking to his sleeping daughter at 3 am, he crept up the stairs to have a look. Standing in the doorway to his room, John knew the sight that greeted him is one he would not soon forget, nor would ever choose to.

Sherlock was stood in the middle of the room, swaying slightly, holding John’s sleeping daughter in his arms. He seemed to almost be dancing with the infant as he talked, the gentle sway of his body no doubt helping to soothe her slumber. Sherlock’s nose was nuzzed against the top of her head as he recited properties of honey making in a fully active bee colony. A truly fascinating topic, if Amelia’s little snuffly snore was anything to go by. John watched the two people he loved most, soft smile playing over his features, and decided that he was going to let him know how he felt, consequences be damned.

John stepped further into the room, and Sherlock froze, realizing that John was there watching him with his daughter. Slowly turning, his eyes met John’s, the pale green wide with fear. John smiled wider, moving to take Amelia from Sherlock’s arms and placing her gently in her crib. Turning back around he saw that Sherlock was standing by the door, an odd mix of confusion and fear playing across his features. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John placed a finger over his own lips, bidding him to stay silent and left the room, motioning for Sherlock to follow. John continued down the stairs, pausing briefly to look behind him, before continuing down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom. 

“John, I’m sorry,” Sherlock began as soon as the door closed, “I shouldn’t have-”

“Sherlock.” John stopped him before he got too far, not interested in apologies. There was a more important question that needed an answer. “Had you done that before, come up to the room in the middle of the night to soothe Amy?”

Sherlock looked anywhere but at John, which in itself provided the answer. “Perhaps. And really, Amy, John? Why the need to shorten a perfectly good name, she’s Amelia for God’s sake -”

The rest of the rant was cut off by John’s mouth, lips sliding tenderly across Sherlock’s once, twice, three times before pulling away. John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s, threading his fingers into inky curls.

“Okay?”

“John,” Sherlock breathed.

“You like her.”

Sherlock pulled back far enough to fix John with his best haughty look, “Like her? John, she’s perfect. She’s  _ yours _ . How could I not love a part of you?”

John sucked in a breath and tightened his grip in Sherlock’s hair, pulling him close. He tilted his head up as Sherlock leaned down, meeting in a crushing kiss that left them both breathless. John broke away, pausing to press kisses to one cheekbone then the other, before pulling away and stripping down to his pants.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, slight tremble in his voice.

“It’s 4 am Sherlock, I’m going to sleep,” John said, climbing into the ridiculously posh bed.

“Oh.”

“Come here, love.”

Given the invitation, Sherlock practically dove into the bed, and plastered himself up against John, curling in against his body and tucking his head on John’s chest. John idly stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, reveling in the feel of silky strands under his fingertips. 

“John?” It was little more than a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

John squeezed Sherlock tighter. There would be time in the morning for conversation, time for John to tell Sherlock that he was truly the one who was thankful. To tell him that couldn’t imagine a better parent for Amelia. To tell him that he was loved, well, and truly. But for now, there was time for this. Time for the feel of this man underneath his fingers, his heart beating against John’s chest. Yes, John didn’t know what to expect when he came back to Baker Street, but he’s glad it was better than he imagined.

  
  



	12. Something to Think About

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock surprises John in the shower....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take note, we're earning our E rating y'all....
> 
>  
> 
> Come visit me on [ Tumblr as Snogbox1.](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/)

Sherlock waits until John crawls out of bed and he hears the shower start before climbing out to follow him. He opens the door of the loo, steam already rising up in the enclosed space. Faintly he can hear John humming to himself, and gives a soft smile in response. Opening the shower door he slips in silently behind John, and reaches out to trace one finger to follow the water tracing down his body, from broad shoulders down his spine until it disappears into the crack of John’s arse. John gives a shiver at the light touch, and leans back against his lover’s body, letting his head rest against Sherlock’s shoulder to reach his lips for a quick kiss. 

“Hmm, Sherlock, I do have to be at the clinic this morning.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock says, pressing kisses to John’s shoulder.

“So I don’t really have time for this.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, too busy nipping his way across shoulder blades and down John’s spine, his tongue flicking out to lick the water droplets from John’s skin.

“Sherlo-” John breathes, feeling the heat begin the pool between his legs at the talent of Sherlock’s mouth on his skin. But he really should call an end to this, he’s running behind as it is.

“Shh - John. Just let me, please,” Sherlock says and drops gracefully to his knees on the shower floor, running his large hands up the back of the John’s thighs to knead at his arse. Sherlock trails his tongue over the dip in John’s spine, moving slowly lower until he reaches the swell of his arse. Sensing what Sherlock wants, John bends over slightly, bracing himself with his forearms against the shower wall.

Sherlock takes his time, using his hands to press John’s cheeks in and out, opening him up, all the time licking broad stripes across John’s perineum, up the crack, and down, teasing stripes, no where near enough.

John’s whole body is trembling, his cock thick and pulsing against his belly, and any pretense of a quick shower is long since forgotten. Its fantastic, and hot as hell, and not fucking enough.

“Sherlock, please.” John moans, wrapping his fist around his cock and giving himself a firm stroke.

Sherlock grabs John hard, spreads him open and dips his head, pressing his tongue flat against John’s hole, once, twice. John presses back, seeking more, and Sherlock thrusts his tongue in, closing his lips around and sucking at his hole. John lets out a long guttural moan, unconsciously moving backwards to seek more. Sherlock is relentless, piercing and laving at the trembling muscle, and John’s fist moves faster on his cock, until he is fucking himself between Sherlock’s tongue and his own hand. He can feel his orgasm barreling down on him, his thighs are shaking with the effort to hold himself upright. Sherlock tongue pushes even further in, and that does it, John’s orgasm explodes in ribbons on the shower wall, his moans filling the small room.

Sherlock eases off, pressing light kisses to each arse cheek, tracing his lips upward over every spinal joint, over collarbones and jawbones, until he reaches John’s ear. He sucks the lobe into his mouth, swirling that filthy tongue around the tip before nibbling gently.

“Have a good day, John. Just giving you something to think about,” Sherlock says, opening the shower door and stepping out.

John can’t help but laugh, too worn out to be upset at the fact that he’ll be spectacularly late to work now. But he will definitely have something to think about.  How best to repay a certain Consulting Detective when he gets home.

 


	13. Happy Accidents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John lets a secret slip...and Sherlock loses his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on my tumblr [Snogbox1](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/)

John blames it on the fact that between cases with Sherlock involving late night stakeouts, and shifts at the clinic, it had been nearly 72 hours since he’d had any real sleep. Trudging home, dead on his feet, he climbed the 17 steps to the flat hoping just for some quiet. He hoped he’d make it to his bedroom, but John had slept a lot of places in his life, and at this moment, anywhere horizontal would work. The smell of smoke hit him as he paused on the top step, and for a fleeting moment, he considered walking back out of the flat. Surely Mrs. Hudson had a sofa he could crash on. But the sound of a crash and a muttered curse had him flinging the door open to find what can only be described as mass chaos. 

Broken glassware, a puddle of something John couldn’t even name on the floor, and what mysteriously looked like one of his jumpers on fire. Sherlock was attempting to put it out, but to no avail. As John watched he dumped the contents of the beaker he was holding on the conflagration effectively dousing the flames, but sending up an acrid plume of smoke in it’s midst. Sherlock began to cough, and John finally sprang into action, grabbing Sherlock by the arm to pull him from the mess and towards the windows, muttering under his breath the whole way. 

John threw open the window, shoving his madman of a flatmate out into the clean air and clapping him on the back to relieve his coughing fit. Satisfied that Sherlock wasn’t in imminent danger any longer, he surveyed the mess, growing angrier by the second at each new disaster he spied. John whirled his head around ready to give Sherlock the dress down of his life, when he noticed that his eyes had gone wide. Wide, and dark. And was that… was he blushing? All bluster went out of him at the sight. Sherlock looked flustered. And adorable. 

“What?” John asked

Sherlock swallowed. “You were muttering under your breath.”

John rubbed his hand along his nape. Ah. He’s not entirely sure what he said, but there may have been a few choice words in that litany. John looked up at Sherlock ready to apologize when Sherlock cut him off. 

“John Hamish Watson. It’s always something,” he mumbled. 

“What? What does my name have to do with-” oh. OH. John realized that not only had he been using a few choice words, apparently his rarely seen Scottish brogue had made an appearance. The accent he usually was successful at keeping under wraps, except when he is dead on his feet. Living in England for so long had nearly eradicated it, so it took extreme situations to bring it out. Situations like walking into utter bedlam caused by a gorgeous genius. A genius who was currently flushed to his roots. John had to laugh. It appeared Sherlock may be interested in this hidden side of John, and he decided to take advantage.

“Soo, laddie, was it something ah seid?”

Sherlock gulped, his breathing coming just a tiny bit quicker. John chuckled. Yes, this was definitely an interesting turn. He stepped closer, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s face as he called him a mad bastard, told him he was going to clean up the flat, his mess, all in the thickest brogue he could muster. 

“Do ye agree?” John asked stopping just in front of Sherlock. 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, John,” he breathed. 

Sherlock was nearly panting now, his eyes wide as saucers and pupils dark. John let his gaze trail over the heaving chest, heated cheeks, Sherlock’s hands clenched on the window sill, and thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Recognizing this moment for what it was, he decided to try one more idea. 

“Can ah kiss ye noo?” He asked, stepping into Sherlock’s personal space, his face mere inches away. 

Sherlock nodded again, his eyes fluttering closed as their mouths met in a simple slide of lips. Sherlock sighed inside their kiss, his arms coming up to wrap around John’s shoulders. John broke away smiling. This was definitely worth the mess that surrounded them. 

“So, you have thing for the Scots, do you?” He asked, threading his fingers through those curls he’d always longed to touch. 

“Hmm, perhaps.” Sherlock leaned down and pressed their mouths together again. After several minutes of this, he broke the kiss to look down at John with a smirk on his face and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. 

“What?”

“Do you own a kilt, John?”

 

 


	14. Rainy Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't love a rainy day?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on my tumblr [Snogbox1](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/)

John loves rainy days. 

Since he was a kid he has loved listening to the patter of raindrops hitting the roof, the sound soothing away the arguments and shouts ever so prevalent in his house. In the army, rainy days were rare in the desert sands, but when they came, they helped chase away the grime and dust and oppressive heat that was an ever present companion. And even now, rainy days are their own special reward.

Rainy days are for taking things slow. For languorous kisses, sliding of tongues, gentle nips on lips. A time for soft moans, and a slow simmering burn that rises up to engulf them both. On those days John likes to lay Sherlock out on their bed and worship every inch of him, leave his marks on that alabaster skin. As the rain splatters against the window, he runs his tongue over Sherlock’s chest, his torso, his belly until he is hard and aching, begging for John to cease the torment. When the sky opens up, falling harder, John presses two slicked fingers into Sherlock’s entrance, his moans drowned out by the thunder crashing outside. And as the lightning flares, shimmering off Sherlock’s flushed form, John pushes inside. Maddenly slow thrusts, steadily leading them both towards release, their shared moans shouted into each others mouths, and tattooed on their skin. And after they have both cleaned up and are wrapped in each other, sated and sleepy, John knows that as long as the rain continues to fall, they will find each other again. Rainy days are also for round two’s.

John loves rainy days. 


	15. Three Baths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shared bath for Sherlock & John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on my tumblr [Snogbox1](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/)
> 
> For [Happierstill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Happierstill)

John leans back against Sherlock’s chest, the warm, honey-scented water rippling around them both as his runs his hand up and down the outside of Sherlock’s thigh. John is pretty sure this spot, nestled between Sherlock’s legs with his arms wrapped around him, is the closest he could get to perfect. He tilts his head back and Sherlock leans down, brushing their mouths together in a sweet kiss. John breaks the kiss and turns back, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“I love you, you know.”

Sherlock hums and wraps his arms around John’s torso, leaning down to press his lips behind John’s ear. “Love you too.” 

“Hmm,” John sighs, “this was a great idea.”

“Obviously.” 

“Git,” John chuckles, slapping Sherlock’s thigh playfully. 

They’d decided the bath was the best idea after the suspect they were chasing dragged Sherlock into the Thames, that ubiquitous scarf providing the leverage needed to haul him into the river. Of course, this necessitated John jumping in after him, wrestling the suspect into submission and dragging Sherlock out of the water. One soggy handcuffed criminal, a laughing Lestrade and a sodden cab ride later, they made it back to the flat, stripped out of their clothes, and climbed into the bath. A perfunctory wash to get the river smell out of their bodies and Sherlock’s curls, now they are just enjoying the chance to relax together. Truth be told, John is relieved to have Sherlock alive and well, the reassuring feel of his heartbeat a welcome presence against his back. Too close today. 

Sherlock chuckles, and runs his hands up and down John’s chest, fingernails lightly brushing ribs and grazing peaked nipples. John sucks in a breath, and squeezes Sherlock’s thigh a bit harder, his cock starting to fill as Sherlock’s talented hands move further south. Sherlock pauses, brushing feather light caresses over his lower abdomen, and lower still, swirling through the thick patch of hair covering his groin, a tease of his fingers over the rapidly hardening flesh before trailing back upwards. Sherlock repeats the process, and John squirms, shifting his hips in an attempt to bring his now fully hard cock into contact with Sherlock’s hand. The move presses him closer to Sherlock’s body, and John can feel his own answering erection pressed against the cleft of his arse. 

Sherlock exhales a shaky breath, wiggling his hips and squeezing his thighs around John’s body, causing white hot desire to spike though John and pool in his belly. “God, Sherlock,” John moans, “Touch me, please.”

Sherlock hastens to comply, wrapping both arms tighter around John and grasping his cock in his right hand, the left moving upwards to tease and pinch at John’s nipples. Sherlock presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to the nape of his neck while giving him a slow stroke, base to tip. John groans, rocking his hips into Sherlock’s grip, and rubbing his arse against Sherlock’s cock. 

“John,” Sherlock moans, hooking his ankle over John’s and rolling his hips. The hand on John’s cock speeds up, pulling back the foreskin on the downward stroke and adding a flick of the wrist at the tip, the way John likes. 

John reaches back and grasps wet curls, twisting his head to press their mouths together. It’s messy and uncoordinated, all desperate tongues and too much teeth, but John doesn’t particularly care at the moment, he just needs to feel Sherlock’s mouth on his. 

The arch of his back causes Sherlock’s cock to slip between his arse cheeks, and they both groan at the sensation. “Christ, Sherlock,” John pants, rolling his hips. The feeling of Sherlock’s erection sliding between his cheeks and brushing over the sensitive entrance to his body making him shiver. 

Sherlock kisses down his neck, stopping to nibble at his shoulder, pressing his teeth hard into the tender flesh there. He moans around the skin as he continues stroking John, his other arm like a vice holding him tighter in place. His breath is coming shallower as he ruts himself against John’s arse. 

John can tell Sherlock is getting close, his hips are increasingly erratic in their movement, and John wants to tip him over the edge. The thought of Sherlock’s come on his arse, his skin, sending sparks shooting through his body. He threads his fingers tighter through Sherlock’s hair and pulls hard, while grinding down on his cock. 

Sherlock stiffens. “John,” he cries, his hand on John’s prick going still as he pours his release over John’s skin, hot, and sticky and perfect. 

“Fuck, Sherlock, that’s hot,” John growls, releasing his hand from Sherlock’s hair and running it down his outer thigh, soothing him through his tremors.

Sherlock is panting against the side of his neck. “Now you,” he breathes, resuming his ministrations on John’s swollen cock. 

“Yes,” John moans, so close already. Those hands, and Sherlock’s own orgasm doing their part to push him to the precipice. 

John reaches down and entwines his fingers with Sherlock’s and together they work him, the water splashing around them. John thrusts his hips faster, fucking into the tight circle of their fists, his free hand digging into the flesh of Sherlock’s thigh hard enough to leave bruises. 

“Oh, Sherlock - yes, yes, FUCK, YES!” He roars, his orgasm sweeping through him hard, his vision going black temporarily with the force of it. 

Sherlock coaxes him through it, peppering soft kisses up his neck, and continues to stroke his softening cock until he is too sensitive. John melts back into Sherlock’s body, sated and boneless, and wonders how this man knows exactly the right way to please him. 

“Easy,” Sherlock says, appearing to read his thoughts. “I’m observant.”

John laughs. “Well, I’m glad you put that skill to good use, then.” He looks down at the fetid water swirling around their bodies. “Right now, I observe that we need to get out of this tub.”

“Indeed.” 

They quickly rinse off and towel dry then paddle into the bedroom, climbing into the bed. Sherlock curls his naked body around John’s, one leg thrown between his, his head snuggled on his chest. John wraps his arms around Sherlock and squeezes, once again grateful for how the day turned out, the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest a welcome sensation. He allows himself to drift to sleep, bathed in the light of the afternoon sun, warm, safe, and content. 


	16. Anything You Ask Of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants a cuddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on my tumblr [Snogbox1](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/)

John held the newspaper up in front of his face, scanning the print for anything of interest. He hoped to find something, anything, that could constitute a case worthy of his madman of a flatmate. He’d been dealing with Sherlock’s mercurial mood for the last two days. Two days of stroppy fits, massive pouts, and flying dressing gowns. In truth, John knew what it was Sherlock really needed, but he was not going to give in so easily. He wanted Sherlock to ask for things instead of acting like an overgrown toddler. 

As if by summoned by the power of John’s thoughts, the man in question sauntered out of his bedroom, long legs striding across the sitting room floor in four paces. He stopped in front of John’s chair, placing his hands on his hips and staring down at John. 

“Anything?”

“Hmm, missing painting from a museum in Brighton, guard reported it -”

“Boring. Solved. Owner stole it for the insurance money.”

“Woman found dead in freezer, jewels missing-”

Sherlock threw his head back and sighed. “Husband. Jewels are a ruse. Clever use of the freezer, she was ‘cold as ice’.” He rolled his eyes, flopping on the sofa face down and letting out a long-drawn out moan. “Why are the criminal classes so boring?”

John smirked at Sherlock’s antics. “Lestrade hasn’t called?”

“Ganannnfkalfj ajbhfklan,” Sherlock mumbled into the cushions. 

“What was that, love? I am afraid I couldn’t quite make that out.”

Sherlock turned his head to the side. “Gavin is being useless. He says to stop calling him or the Met will be solving MY murder.” 

John hid his smile behind his hand. “Well, we could always watch telly.”

Sherlock huffed, then bolted upright. “John,” he began, looking at John through his lashes. 

“Hmm?” John replied, thumbing through the rest of the paper. “Or we could play a game. Not cluedo though, never again.”

“Johhhnn,” Sherlock tried again, drawing out the consonants in his name. 

“Or maybe go for a walk? It’s nice outside.” John was decidedly not looking at the couch. Not watching Sherlock pout prettily as he pondered his next move. He had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. 

Sherlock stood up and moved over to stand in front of John’s chair. He wavered there, shifting slightly from foot to foot as he waited for John to look up at him. John took his time, carefully closing the paper, folding it in half and placing it on the side table next to his chair. Only after that was complete did he look up to catch Sherlock’s eyes. His pleading, beautiful, color-of the-sea, ever-changing eyes. 

John decided to take pity on him, and not force him to ask outright. He unfolded his legs and opened his arms, letting out a small ‘oomph’ as his lap was suddenly filled with 183cm of consulting detective. Sherlock curled his frame into the chair, arse resting on John’s thigh and legs folded up between John’s other leg and the arm of the chair. He wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders, burying his face into his neck and breathing deeply. John lifted his arms to wrap around Sherlock’s back, one hand threading through Sherlock’s curls. He lightly scratched Sherlock’s scalp, and Sherlock sighed, melting into his embrace. 

Chuckling, John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. “You realize you could have just asked for a cuddle.”

“Couldn’t.” Sherlock mumbled, his mouth pressed against John’s neck. 

“Why’s that?”

“Helping you practice your deductive skills.”

“Git,” John laughed, swatting him playfully on his hip. 

“John?”

“Yes, love?”

Sherlock shifted to press a small kiss to the underside of John’s jaw. “Thank you,” he breathed. 

John turned his head, capturing Sherlock’s mouth in a lingering kiss, a sweet slide of lips that still managed to make his heart beat faster. “You’re welcome, love. Anything you need, anytime. You only have to ask. Got it?” 

Judging by the slight wetness in Sherlock’s eyes, John could tell no one had ever made him that promise before. He was suddenly filled with both pride that he could fill that role for him, and anger that no one ever treated this man with the care he deserved. He squeezed Sherlock a little tighter, and couldn’t resist pressing another kiss to that gorgeous mouth. “I mean it, Sherlock.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock sighed, snuggling down into John’s chest. “Could you...hold me a little longer?”

John smiled. “For as long as you want. Forever, if you let me.” 


End file.
